


Fire and Ash

by Nikkusama



Category: The Sexy Brutale (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Game Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkusama/pseuds/Nikkusama
Summary: The night of the Marquis' grand event, Greyson and Redd search for the elusive Moloch Egg. Their fated hunt is cut short as tragedy strikes a little after 4pm.





	Fire and Ash

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Sexy Brutale fanfiction, based on my interpretation of what likely *actually* happened the night of the party. I play a little bit loose with room details, but it should be mostly canonical. Major spoilers for the end of the game, and no, there isn't a happy ending...

“It must be somewhere around here,” Greyson announced, theatrically slamming the door open before sweeping his arm to gesture at the dimly lit room. Redd unobtrusively followed him into the study, gently closing the door behind him.

“In here?” Redd asked, cocking his head to one side. Greyson didn’t immediately answer; he was already diligently searching, looking for something amiss, a small hint or clue that he was on the right track.

“It makes perfect sense!” He said, peering behind a bookcase. “That crackpot Thanos installed one of my safe boxes in here, and I’m certain the Marquis would think he’s so clever to hide something _I’m_ looking for in a safe _I_ designed…”

The room was familiar to Redd, one he had been in so many times before; the Marquis’s books were, as usual, neatly filed on the ornate mahogany shelves, the large writing desk was clear save for monogrammed writing paper with the mark of “Lucas Bondes”, the fireplace was unlit, stone cold and letting in a draft from the chimney. It was a perfectly ordinary study, seemingly untouched by the clamour of the festivity going on in the casino and, undoubtedly, the bar.

“I know, you’ve said, but I’m not so sure. He was probably just teasing you; he knows how excited you get about that egg,” Redd said, leaning back against the polished wooden cabinet at one end of the room, folding his arms and grinning. Greyson headed towards the large liquor cabinet, tucked away in the corner. The Marquis’s private stash; he kept the really good stuff in there.

“But he is a man of his word. I know he has it…”

“He might not outright lie,” Redd said, picking his words about his employer and friend carefully, “but he will stretch the truth until it almost breaks. He can be, and I say this with the uttermost respect, “a complete bastard” when it amuses him.” He smirked, watching the back of Greyson’s head as he rummaged through the ornate cabinet, carelessly pushing aside bottles of alcohol that each cost more than Redd’s annual salary.

“It has to be here,” he heard Greyson mutter against the clinking of glass, “I’ve searched everywhere else in this blasted place…”

“Don’t you want to join the party? It’ll be in full swing by now. In fact…“ Redd looked at his watch, checking the time. It was a gift from Greyson, a Sixpence original, and whilst it was one of his most cherished possessions, he always had the slightest concern that it was something that Greyson had… acquired… it through less than savoury means. He never voiced his concerns. “I promised Tequila I’d play for her at her rehearsal; she will be expecting me in a few hours. Come on, forget about the egg.”

“The party can wait! Tequila can wait! I told you, it’s not JUST an egg – it’s the Moloch egg! One of the three Russian Treasures, priceless, and that crazy, rich bastard has it… Hey- there’s something in here…”

“Well, as long as you don’t get us in trouble, I guess we can look for a bit longer.” Redd conceded. There was a loud click, and the snap of a latch releasing.

“Got you! Lucas, you sly dog.” Greyson stood and turned triumphantly, revealing a cast-iron safe hidden behind bottles of scotch and brandy. “Hiding a safe at the back of the drinks cabinet. I have to admit, this was a bit more original than the one behind the painting.” He cast a scornful eye at the ornate portrait hanging above the fireplace, framed with velvet. Even Redd had suspected that there was a safe there; it was so much like Thanos.

“So? Is it in there?” Redd took a step forward, grinning. He knew it would be empty. It always was. It was a good thing, really; Redd didn’t fancy explaining to Clay why he was being willingly led astray by a supposedly reformed thief, but that didn’t stop him from following Greyson on every one of his escapades.

Greyson knelt down as Redd approached, and with steady hands pulled on the safe door. It swung open, revealing nothing but space.

“God damn it! I was so sure…” He stood up, and stroked his beard, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. He looked up at Redd, pensive. “This is not going to stop me, you know. If you want to join the party, go ahead. I think I saw your brother losing an insurmountable amount of cash at the blackjack table earlier- I doubt he’d have moved.”

Redd waved his hand, shaking his head.

“Not without you. I can’t be having fun whilst you’re getting into trouble.” Greyson grinned beneath his mask.

“What would I do without you looking out for me? Come on, then, let’s look in the theatre. I’m sure there are plenty of places he could have hidden the blasted thing. You go that way; I’ll go this, and we’ll meet on stage.”

“Got it.” Redd watched as Greyson headed into the adjacent dressing room and sighed softly. He’d follow Greyson anywhere, to the end of this world and the next, but he’d be damned if he’d admit that to anyone. Smiling wistfully, he turned to head through the other door.

Something caught the edge of Redd’s trained hearing, a quiet, yet aching sound, coming from behind, from the fireplace. He turned, and was immediately thrown backwards, his large frame crashing into the door he’d been about to open. The impact blew it straight off of its hinges; he landed heavily on top of it, a crumpled broken mess on the lower floor of the empty theatre, amidst the tables and chairs.

Everything hurt. He could barely breathe, the air knocked out of his lungs. He gasped as if he had been held underwater, and the air scorched his throat. The skin of his face and hands felt like it was on fire, unbearably hot and stinging. His mask, dislodged and covering his eyes, was burning, blistering his face. He grabbed the plastic and metal with both hands, and tore it from his face with a cry. Free from his mask, he saw white-yellow-orange flames licking up the walls of the study, scorching, blackening.

“Grey… GREY!” He yelled, his powerful voice cracking through his blistered lips. He forced himself to stand up, using a nearby table for support.

His leg hurt. A large splinter from the door stuck out of his thigh. He saw the blood begging to soak through the fabric of his dress trousers. He tugged, pulling it out, and threw it to one side.

“Grey!” He limped back towards the study, feeling the heat grow more intense with each step; it was as if the air itself was boiling. “GREYSON!”

He had to go in there, into the raging inferno. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself into the flames. They licked up his body; the pain was the worst he had ever felt in his life. His clothes burned; his hair singed. He doubled over, covering his head with his arm, and tried to scour the floor for a person, or a body.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were on fire; acrid black smoke was coming from the walls, emanating from the newly caught rug. The liquor cabinet was ablaze. He could barely see; blinded by smoke and fire both.

The room was empty. He tried to cry out Greyson’s name, but black smoke immediately filled his lungs; he coughed instead, holding an arm over his mouth and nose. It didn’t help much.

He couldn’t go back the way he came.

He tried the handle of the door to the dressing room, and yelled as the metal immediately seared his hand; he snatched it away, leaving chunks of skin and flesh behind on the brass. With a wild cry he forced the red-hot door open, charging the burning wood with his shoulders. The room was already scorching; the costumes, once sitting prettily on the coat-racks, were already alight; the bookshelf was glowing as the paper fuelled the flames; the paintings on the wall were melting, distorting in the heat, the images becoming nightmarish as they burned.

He kicked something. A foot. He scooped up Greyson’s prone body, holding him close to his chest. He wasn’t moving. In a blind panic, he kicked open yet another door; and stumbled onto the main stage.

The sudden change in temperature sent a new wave of pain through him. Yelling out, he hastily placed Greyson on the floor before dropping to his knees, curling into a ball, coughing, crying in agony, holding his right hand to his chest whilst trying to staunch the blood flowing freely from his thigh. Everything hurt; his skin, burned red blistered, throbbed, his nerves screaming. He coughed again; smoke was filling this room too, coming in from all sides.

Why was this happening? What was going on?!

Next to him, Greyson started to cough, hacking and choking as he fought against the smoke in his lungs. “Redd…?” he croaked, dragging his focus and attention back to what mattered most.

“Grey…!” He shuffled over to him, pulling Greyson's head into his lap, trying to block out the pain. He fumbled with the metal mask covering the dome of Greyson’s head; the padlock-shaped clasp was partially melted, but easily snapped under pressure. “Grey… Greyson? Are you ok? Are you hurt?!” He threw the mask across the stage and it was immediately lost in the smoke.

“Redd… ” Greyson coughed, his dark eyes focussing. “What the hell happened…? Something hit my head…” He struggled to sit up; Redd helped him as best he could.

They both took in the state of the theatre; flames licked into the auditorium from every possible opening; doors hung from their hinges, consumed by the inferno. It was getting hotter; everything that could burn was on fire: the carpet, the curtains, the paintings; smoke was filling the theatre alarmingly quickly. Redd could no longer see the door to the lobby through the haze.

“Grey… what are we going to do?”

“We have to get out! You… the state of you … Redd … your face… Jesus, your hand!”

Redd looked down, following Greyson’s gaze.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to play for Tequila any more…” he said, his voice distant. His right hand, the one he had with so carelessly tried to open the door, was black, bleeding red were the skin had completely pulled away; he could see the tendons, and in one case, bone.

“As if that matter right now!”

Redd tried to wiggle his fingers, but they didn’t respond. He felt sick.

“No, no don't look. Look at me, look at me!” Greyson grabbed his shoulders, and a new rose of pain bloomed at the touch. He forced himself to look away, and instead met Greyson’s sharp brown eyes. That look was so intense; he felt it boring into his soul. He blinked and nodded, bringing his focus back.

“Sorry. I’m sorry… How do we get out? I… can’t get to the door…” He was losing feeling in his leg too. His trousers were soaked with blood; he was leaving a pool on the floor.

Greyson stroked his chin, a thinking habit that was hindered by how little of his beard had survived the fire.

“The trapdoor. There’s a trapdoor on stage for one of the acts! We have to find it.”

“Can… can you open it?”

“Of course I can bloody open it! I can open any lock in my sleep! We just need to find the f-… the blasted thing! Come on, get up!”

With Greyson’s help, Redd staggered to his feet. He could hardly bear his own weight on his wounded leg; he lumbered unevenly across the stage, trying to peer through the smoke for the tell-tale edge of the trapdoor. He was vaguely aware of Greyson doing the same.

He tripped over something, a ring of iron. He stumbled and fell, his legs crumpling from under him. He wouldn’t be able to move much more. So much for being “a total brute” as Greyson had so often teased.

“Redd!”

“I’m fine… I’ve found it. Please… open it… get us out of here” He could barely see; the theatre was a haze of choking smoke. He heard Greyson approach, and kneel in front of the trapdoor. He saw him fumble in his pockets, first his breast pockets, then his trousers, then his breast pockets once again. Redd felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Greyson hung his head, before turning to face him.

“Redd… I don’t have my picks. I must...they must have fallen out…”

Redd closed his eyes. This was it.

“Grey…”

“I’m sorry Redd…”

“Maybe… you can dash towards the lobby. The casino is just through there-”

“You can’t run.” Greyson snapped. “Jesus, man, you can barely stand!”

“No, no I mean… go without me. Get out of here!”

He felt a pressure next to him as Greyson sat by his side.

“I’m not leaving without you.”

The words rendered him speechless. He wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words.

Some lumber fell from above, crashing not too far away, though Redd couldn’t see where. From high above he heard glass smash, and there was a thin patter as crystal hit the stage, a facsimile of rain. He felt a slight touch on his left hands; Greyson’s fingers were trying to find his. He took his hand and squeezed. He couldn’t look at him; instead he closed his eyes. It was getting tough to breathe.

This was it. He had nothing left to lose. It was now or never. He was going to tell him.

“Grey…?"

"What?"  
  
"I love you.”

Redd heard the catch in Greyson’s voice, the slight intake of breath.

“I’m… I’m sorry I had to tell you like this. I can’t… die here… and not tell you.” He opened his eyes and tried to gauge his reaction through the corner of his eye. Greyson was looking straight ahead, at the closed trapdoor. “Sorry… I’ve made this terribly awkward.”

Greyson let out a dry laugh.

“It’s funny… isn’t this how a lot of people want to go? Dying next to someone they love?” he turned to face Redd, meeting his eye. They had the same intensity as before. Redd shivered, and despite everything, he smiled.

“The fiery death part…not so much.”

“Yeah.”

There was another silence. Greyson hadn’t pulled his hand away; he was holding on just as tightly. It seemed quieter now, as the fire roared around them.

The stage was burning.

Redd felt suddenly dizzy, felt himself fall backwards, felt the back of his head hit the stage. He was aware of Greyson calling his name. Ash rained into his face. His eyes opened a sliver and he saw Greyson’s silhouette against the smoke.

“Redd! Redd… thank god… I thought…”

“’m sorry.” Redd closed his eyes again, focussing on Greyson’s hand in his.

“Redd…this is goodbye, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. If he didn’t know better, it almost sounded like Greyson was crying. In this end, this is all they had.

“Yeah.” Redd couldn’t muster the strength to say more. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even cough any more.

“You know… I keep hoping… maybe this is all a ruse… a grand ploy by Lucas… that he’ll turn up… say this was all part of the show…” Grey said, his voice low, choking. Redd squeezed Greyson’s hand in response.

There was a shift in movement, and Redd felt Greyson leaning close over him; shielding him from the flames, his mouth close to his ear.

“Redd... Redd, I….”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I'm glad to be contributing to the quite empty SB fanfiction pool! 
> 
> So, a bit of rambling:  
> Greyson and Redd's scene really struck a chord with me, more so than the other deaths, mainly for the sheer helplessness of it all. There was just something so bittersweet and downright tragic about how the two characters interacted, with the panic, and being physically and metaphorically bound to their fates, right up until the end. 
> 
> Following the end of the game, when it is revealed that the events didn't exactly transpire the way they were depicted and that everyone died in a fire, I took the liberty of interpreting the locations of their in-game deaths as where the bodies were found, and wrote this accordingly.


End file.
